Within Ninety Seconds

Ozan-bek reached for his radio. "I'm calling the emergency shut-off team."

"Don't you dare touch that button!" I snapped.

"The chamber is exceeding thermal limits!"

"If you trigger the street valve, the back-pressure will rupture every pipe between here and the harbor!"

I didn't wait for his permission.

I spun toward the Great Stove.

I grabbed my sixteen-inch steel bypass lever from the rack. The metal was burning hot, but my calloused palms barely felt the sting.

I slid through the narrow gap between the prep counter and Ozan-bek's shoulder.

I intentionally threw my weight into him.

My shoulder slammed into his chest, knocking him half a step off balance against the spice rack. A jar of dried oregano rattled and tumbled.

"Watch it!" he muttered, catching the falling jar with astonishing reflexes.

In that single second of contact, while his hands were up catching the glass, my right fingers dropped to his hip.

My fingers worked on pure muscle memory.

I didn't fumble. I didn't yank.

Locksmiths don't snatch; we slide.

My thumb flicked the spring clip of his key ring. With a single fluid roll of my wrist, the five-inch iron conduit key slipped free from the brass loop into the palm of my hand.

I tucked it instantly into the deep leather pocket of my tool belt.

Ozan-bek didn't even notice. He was steadying the spice jar and staring at the roaring furnace.

I didn't stop to admire my work.

I vaulted the corner of the low brick hearth.

Steam screamed around my ears. The heat was blinding, searing the hair on my forearms.

The bypass valve was stuck half a turn short of open. The heavy bronze wheel had jammed against the thermal casing.

"Wrench!" I shouted.

Demir scrambled, but his bad knee buckled under the weight of the iron box.

I didn't have time for tools.

I jammed my steel bypass lever into the spokes of the wheel. I braced my boots against the stone masonry of the foundation wall.

I threw my entire body weight into the lever.

"Come on," I grunted through clenched teeth. "Turn, you bastard."

The bronze groaned. Rust and scale flaked off the axle in a shower of orange dust.

The wheel didn't budge.

Suddenly, a pair of strong hands gripped the lever beside mine.

Ozan-bek.

He had planted his polished leather oxfords right into the soot and coal dust. His sleeves strained over corded forearms as he locked his grip over the steel bar.

"On three," he said in my ear. His breath was hot against my neck.

"One," I barked.

"Two."

"Three!"

We threw our combined strength against the lever.

The jammed valve gave a deafening crack. The bronze wheel spun three full revolutions.

A torrent of excess steam roared down the relief channel beneath the floor, venting safely into the deep drainage conduits below the street.

The screaming high-pressure whine died into a soft, steady thrum.

The pressure needle drifted out of the red, settling squarely in the green operating band.

Silence fell over the kitchen, broken only by the crackle of cherry coals and the distant chatter of the dining room.

I stood panting, my forehead slick with sweat.

Ozan-bek was standing inches behind me. His chest rose and fell against my shoulder.

He hadn't let go of the lever yet. Neither had I.

His hands were covered in black coal dust. The fine wool of his tailored vest was streaked with soot and white flour.

He looked down at his ruined clothes, then looked at me.

For someone whose immaculate corporate armor had just been demolished, he looked remarkably alive.

"That wasn't a standard bypass procedure," he murmured.

"It worked," I said, catching my breath.

"You applied forty percent more torque than the brass fitting was rated for."

"The brass held."

"You were lucky."

"I was skilled. There's a difference."

His gaze dropped to my lips, then flicked back to my eyes.

The air between us was heavy with heat, steam, and unsaid accusations.

He slowly released his grip on the lever.

He stepped back, brushing at the soot on his vest. It only smeared the black grease deeper into the expensive fabric.

"You're bleeding," he said quietly.

I looked down at my right hand. A jagged sliver of rusted iron from the lever had sliced across the base of my thumb. A thin bead of crimson was welling against the soot on my skin.

I wiped it against my apron without caring.

"I've had worse from a dull paring knife."

Ozan-bek reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a clean, folded white handkerchief of fine linen.

He held it out to me.

"Take it," he said.

"I don't need your charity, Ozan-bek."

"It isn't charity. It's sanitation. You're handling food in a commercial establishment."

I glared at him, snatched the linen from his fingers, and wrapped it tightly around my thumb.

It was impossibly soft. It smelled of that same clean cedarwood.

I hated how good it felt against my scraped skin.

"Your forty-eight hours started at dawn," Ozan-bek said, his voice regaining its crisp, professional cadence. "You have thirty-six hours remaining to provide certified engineering documentation for this manifold."

"And if I don't?"

"Then on Thursday morning at eight o'clock, Tash-Kala crews will weld the street gate shut."

"They'll have to weld me inside with it."

"Don't tempt them," he said.

He picked up his aluminum clipboard from the prep table, turned on his heel, and walked briskly toward the stairs.

His boots clicked rhythmically against the stone steps as he ascended toward the street entrance.

Uncle Demir let out a long, wheezing breath from behind the grill.

"Cocky bastard," Demir muttered, picking up his knife again. "He'll be back tomorrow with ten more clipboards."

"Let him come," I said.

I waited until the heavy iron street door banged shut at the top of the stairs.

The dining room crowd was still roaring, oblivious to how close they had come to a steam blast. Orders were shouting down the chute again.

"Demir," I said, my voice low. "Take the pans. Finish the lamb."

"Where are you going?"

"Pantry. To check the flour bins."

I walked swiftly into the dark, arched pantry behind the cold cellar.

Rows of pickled garlic, hanging smoked sausages, and fifty-pound sacks of grain lined the brick walls. The only light came from a single flickering oil lantern hung from an iron hook.

I leaned back against the cool foundation stone.

My heart was hammering against my ribs, fast and erratic.

I reached into my tool belt.

My fingers curled around the heavy iron key I had lifted from Ozan-bek's belt.

I pulled it out into the dim lantern light.

The key was thick, blackened iron, cold to the touch. The bow was stamped with a tiny, worn symbol—an open eye inside a three-pronged gear.

The mark of the Master Gatekeepers.

I ran my thumb over the three square notches cut into the bit.

I knew those notches.

Ten years ago, when I was sixteen, my father had hidden me behind the flour sacks while he opened the secret maintenance blast door beneath our wine cellar.

He had inserted a key identical to this one into the heavy iron plate bolted to the bedrock.

He had told me never to go down there unless the city above was burning.

"Where did you get this, Ozan-bek?" I whispered to the empty room.

The key was not a corporate auditor's tool.

It was an inheritance.

I slipped the iron key into the deep inner pocket of my leather vest, right next to the brass token he had left behind that morning.

Thirty-six hours left on the clock.

If Tash-Kala wanted to bury the Ember House, they were going to have to dig through the dark first.

I picked up my wrench and walked back out into the heat of the fire.